houldn't I laugh?" he asked, pinning her with his elbows, and
advancing his face to hers. "What's there to cry at? Kiss me here." He
indicated the spot where a kiss would be welcome.

He was a boy after all. When it came to the point, it was she who
remembered the past, she into whose soul the iron had entered, she
who knew whose room this had been last year. It endeared him to her
strangely that he should be sometimes wrong.

"Any letters?" he asked.

"Just a line from Freddy."

"Now kiss me here; then here."

Then, threatened again with rheumatism, he strolled to the window,
opened it (as the English will), and leant out. There was the parapet,
there the river, there to the left the beginnings of the hills. The
cab-driver, who at once saluted him with the hiss of a serpent, might
be that very Phaethon who had set this happiness in motion twelve
months ago. A passion of gratitude--all feelings grow to passions in the
South--came over the husband, and he blessed the people and the things
who had taken so much trouble about a young fool. He had helped himself,
it is true, but how stupidly!

All the fighting that mattered had been done by others--by Italy, by his
father, by his wife.

"Lucy, you come and look at the cypresses; and the church, whatever its
name is, still shows."

"San Miniato. I'll just finish your sock."

"Signorino, domani faremo uno giro," called the cabman, with engaging
certainty.

George told him that he was mistaken; they had no money to throw away on
driving.

And the people who had not meant to help--the Miss Lavishes, the Cecils,
the Miss Bartletts! Ever prone to magnify Fate, George counted up the
forces that had swept him into this contentment.

"Anything good in Freddy's letter?"

"Not yet."

His own content was absolute, but hers held bitterness: the
Honeychurches had not forgiven them; they were disgusted at her past
hypocrisy; she had alienated Windy Corner, perhaps for ever.

"What does he say?"

"Silly boy! He thinks he's being dignified. He knew we should go off in
the spring--he has known it for six months--that if mother wouldn't give
her consent we should take the thing into our own hands. They had fair
warning, and now he calls it an elopement. Ridiculous boy--"

"Signorino, domani faremo uno giro--"

"But it will all come right in the end. He has to build us both up
from the beginning again. I wish, though, that Cecil had not turned so
cynical about women. H